


The Sound of Emptiness

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: They step into the shower together. Rather, Joan leads. Vera follows. / “Be honest with yourself, Vera. You still crave the touch of my hand. You melt at the sign of my approval.”





	The Sound of Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> So, my mind kept going back to the infamous shower scene with Novak and Ferguson in s5. Naturally, I imagined Vera in Novak's placement. And wow, I have a knack for posting fics at odd hours!

Top Dog, Joan Ferguson, undergoes the mechanization of habit. She performs the ritual of cleansing herself. Three women – loyal, mindless, and nameless – stand guard at the door, mimicking Cerberus patrolling the gate to the Underworld. Her caddy's been precociously planted near the shower stall, the towel folded neatly while waiting to serve its purpose. Moments prior to her grand entrance, the square cubicle had been sterilized to her standards. She watched as the women fell to their hands and knees, scrubbing with bleach. Scrubbing until their hands grew red.

Now, Ferguson brushes aside the thick, plastic curtain that struggles to conceal the human body in all its splendor. It always distorts in a Picasso-esque fashion. Prepared to turn the faucet, she reaches for the knobs. A persistent spray follows thereafter. The thick evergreen robe doesn't hide her impressive build, merely enhances the swell of her hips.

Things don't go exactly to plan – or do they?

All the inmates scurry out like the vermin they are.

Her molded, little protégé strolls in, breaking free from the mold, but not the cycle they are thrown into. In front of the door, Governor Vera Bennett folds her arms across her chest. She tries to look tough; she tries to look angry. A pity that Vera is too transparent. Her curse rests within her overgrown humanity.

“You always have to orchestrate everything, don't you?”

Vera sounds exhausted from the detonation of her inquiry. The lines in her forehead crease. In disbelief, she shakes her head. With the way her mouth pops open, her jaw threatens to dislocate.

Joan arches her brow.

A single, exchanged stare speaks in _volumes_.

“I am not responsible for luring you here. Curiosity brings you here.” Biting down on those T's, Joan draws closer. She leans forward and continues with a rhetorical question, “--Doesn't it?”

Purposely, she drags her scarred fingers over the name badge, the shiny buttons, and up to the crown.

Vera fights off the shivers that threaten to assault her small, slender form.

“Don't you grow tired of these machinations, Joan?”

The fledgling governor answers questions with more questions.

Alone, they refer to one another by name, not by title.

“Be honest with yourself, _Vera_. You still crave the touch of my hand. You melt at the sign of my approval.”

Smugly, Joan bobs her head. Examines her prey through half-lidded eyes. She reigns supreme here in this prison, regardless of the intimacy of the setting. Smith doesn't win; Ferguson does.

She speaks with her hands, propelling them through the air. Vera is correct to assume that she needs to orchestrate, to make the music for the final act.

“Well, Vera. Shall we conduct your strip search for the sake of your accrued guilt?”

She mocks. Turns Vera into the fool and perhaps she is for coming here so willingly.

Much too close, Joan taps the utility belt for emphasis.

Incredulous, Vera gawks. She doesn't disagree. One by one, the pieces of her uniform shed free from her skin. They pool around her feet. Positioned at a crooked angle, her heels lay lifelessly on the tiled ground. The only air of professionalism that remains is the bun, but even that is a remnant of her mentor. Her nipples stand at attention. Goosebumps prick her flesh. She shivers not from the cold, but the magnitude of the razor-sharp stare.

“This is wrong.”

Her protest sounds meek: an echo to the woman she used to be, to the woman that she remains.

In her smile, Joan displays a sliver of teeth.

“Don't deny your nature, Vera.”

She doesn't.

By these principles, they get each other off.

Ferguson peels her house robe from her impressive build that resembles a fortress – impenetrable, strong, absolute. She drapes the article over the porcelain sink that dribbles and drips. Not nearly enough funding from the board can fix a leaky faucet. A pity that Vera doesn't know how to finagle finances.

Water purifies. Joan fastens her hair in a fusion between a ponytail and a bun; it's a metamorphosis or a fusion, it's difficult to say. They step into the shower together. Rather, Joan leads. Vera follows.

“Is this what you've fantasized about in all of our time alone, Vera?”

She spins her darling marionette in a half-circle until Vera's stomach scrapes the wall, her hands up to support herself. She whispers into the shell of her ear. Coming from Joan, it sounds lewd. Downright obscene. Her knuckle grazes the slit between Vera's shapely, muscles legs. The breath hitching in her throat elicits a newly found satisfaction from Joan.

“I want to see you,” Vera says, neither begging nor pleading, only stating the truth of the matter.

Again, she's spun around. She finds herself growing dizzy from the mistreatment. Now, Vera's back grinds against the tiled wall of the shower stall. She's lifted into the air. A gracious hand caresses her throat and threatens to _squeeze_. At the offense, she opens her mouth to protest. In retaliation, her knee slides between Joan's legs. Two can play at that game.

With a deepened growl, Joan seizes Vera's hip. The skin beneath her fingers feels similar to putty. It's not putty. There will be bruises tomorrow and she'll have to invent a lie for Jake to believe in. For herself to believe in.

Vera's hips snap open wider to compensate for the woman between them. She feels how wet Joan is. Can recognize desire when she sees it. She applies pressure, lifts her leg higher.

Steam consumes them, obscures their expressions and the soft moans lost to the deafening pour of water. Joan takes a pert nipple into her mouth, dragging her teeth across it. She bites. Vera gasps. It's a contest to see who can hurt who.

They're soaked from the water.

Soaked by their own insatiable desire.

Maintaining eye contact, her fingers catch Joan's chin, luring her mouth to hers. Gone is the hesitation of a mouse scurrying around Wentworth. Her belly coils, her body radiating warmth. Would you have fucked her at that doomed dinner for two? Maybe in another life, things would have gone differently.

Pale on pale, their bodies merge as one. The kiss is vicious, all teeth and mouth and tongue, their lips forming a frantic pace. Vera rolls her hips, her clit rubbing against Joan's thigh with a newly found vigor. Jake had failed in making her this wet, but his ineptitude is the last thing that she wishes to focus on in this... compromising situation. This is a feral kind of love – baiting one's nature until the truth comes out.

“Oh, God.”

Joan smirks into the hollow of Vera's throat.

Her teeth leave an indentation there, quick to fade after the vicious foreplay. Joan doesn't allow her to touch beyond her back, her shoulders; any lower warrants an intimacy that she has not yet come to terms with. In frustration, in agony, Vera chooses to link her arms around Joan's neck (a fixation promising strangulation in the most arousing fashion, should Vera comply and comply, she will).

Rather, she derives immense gratification in seeing Vera come undone. Long, thick fingers ghost over the curve of her back, over the swell of her ass, down the musculature of her thighs before settling in between her legs to work back and forth over her entrance.

She's wet.

She's an enticing feast.

Joan contemplates her options.

One: she could kneel between Vera and worship the altar that deserves her skillful attention. Two: she could rob Vera of her senses and fuck her with her fingers.

Option two promises more leeway. Grants more privilege. Inspires more control.

Without mercy, without condolences, Joan slips herself inside Vera. Uses her fingers to her advantage. Curls them. Pumps them in and out, in an out, to match the ebb and flow of the rising tide. Thanks to the shower, Vera's hair plasters to her face. The bun is a mess, her life is a fucking mess, but she doesn't care – especially not when she has Joan here, her panting low and hoarse though it contains the unmistakable note of arousal.

Vera wants the moment to last. She knows it won't. A calloused thumb brushes over her clit. Rubs in circles. Spells out damnation. A fall from grace.

Stifling a gasp, she ignores the ache of her hips; her legs are spread too wide. Yet, she's desperate to have Joan inside her – deeper than she's had anyone else. In urgency, she presses her forehead to the woman that's woven her demise so artfully. She snaps her blue-grey eyes open, lost to the dark stare that draws her in. Consumes her. Leaves her craving.

In foolishness, she kisses Joan again, wishes for a life beyond this prison where the intimacy wasn't a twisted fabrication. In a temporary bliss, Vera moans. Her walls contract. Her orgasm comes out as a rush of adrenaline surging through her body. She jostles and jolts within that powerful grasp. Joan's fingers linger inside her, knuckles buried to the hilt.

By the blade, they die.

It's a little death that proves most memorable to all.  
  


 


End file.
